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The innocent get lynched
to the rhythm of calumny.
In the odyssey of rancour,
the great inquisitor
and the shrouded man,
the shrouded man.
In the sure, sure shelter
of loneliness
the crown is achieved
after victory.
That will not be the story
of my generation.
Pleasure is an abyss,
the orgasm a relief
against the farce
farce of control
of older people.

As if that moment
could be the first
of the rest of our lives.
Stormy days,
eve of splendour.

When the future is improbable
and to think is not enough
and when that which in theory
cannot be,
has happened ...

As if that moment
could be the first
of the rest of our lives.
Stormy days,
eve of splendour.

Sounds like a rebellion against the establishment, that what worked for previous generations will not work for this one.